


i'm a prisoner to my addiction (i'm addicted to a life that's so empty and so cold)

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm softe, M/M, Nightmares, Possessive Sex, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: geralt, tonosurprise, often finds himself beset by nightmares.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 6
Kudos: 420





	i'm a prisoner to my addiction (i'm addicted to a life that's so empty and so cold)

**Author's Note:**

> title from prisoner by the weeknd and lana del rey
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier
> 
> reupload.

Geralt, to _no_ surprise, often finds himself beset by nightmares.

But while he finds himself beset by nightmares _often_ ,

It's _not_ often that he finds himself beset by the kind of nightmares that _truly_ shake him to his core,

And the ones that _shake_ the hardened Witcher _right_ to his steel-coated core,

Are the nightmares where Jaskier succumbs to the djinn’s curse,

Nightmares where the arrow meant for _Geralt_ hits Jaskier’s _heart_ ,

Nightmares where he’s always _late_ , always too fucking _late_ ,

And,

He _always_ wakes up with a _violence_ , when he finds himself beset by _these_ kinds of nightmares,

Wakes up with Jaskier’s name _half-formed_ on his tongue,

The _panic_ of _losing_ Jaskier kicking his heart into a wild, _aching_ frenzy,

But he _also_ wakes up to -

“Wolf?”

And Jaskier’s voice is _gravelly_ , is deep with the lingering smoke of sleep as he rolls over, as he dusts his knuckles over Geralt’s bicep,

As he runs a strong hand up Geralt’s sweat-dampened spine,

And Geralt breathes like he’s just put down a damn _dragon_ as he looks towards the bardling,

As Jaskier sits up in bed, sheets pooled around his narrow hips, hair a wild mess, blue eyes gone _so_ soft, 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt tips into him impulsively when the bard reaches out, the _gentlest_ instinct one _Geralt of Rivia_ has _ever_ given grace to,

And Jaskier’s fingertips trail over his jaw, trace the swell of his bottom lip, chase heat over Geralt’s cheekbone as the Witcher nuzzles against the bridge of Jaskier’s nose, as he slides an arm around the bard’s slender waist, 

As Jaskier guides Geralt’s free hand to his chest, where his heart beats _strong_ and _steady_ , where the muscle _sings_ out in a symphony of reassurance that Geralt sinks _so_ willingly into, aligns every sense in his _body_ to, until Jaskier’s heartbeat is the epicenter of his universe and _all_ he knows is the scent of _cedar_ , of _smoke_ , of _summer rose_ , and,

“Can you feel me, my wolf?”

And Geralt can’t _quite_ find his voice - but that’s _alright_ , he thinks, because when he burrs low in his chest, Jaskier’s lips curve into a smile, a smile he presses against the corner of Geralt’s mouth, 

Because Jaskier has _always_ understood him, even when Geralt didn’t want him to - because Jaskier _saw_ Geralt even when the Witcher was hiding in _plain fucking sight,_ was all steel-coated skin and stone-sharpened words,

But despite all the _invisible_ wounds he’s left on Jaskier,

Despite all the _brutal_ words, 

_Despite_ all the ways he’s failed him,

_Somehow,_

Jaskier is _still here,_

Still runs a hand up Geralt’s spine when he wakes with a _violence_ from nightmares that remind him of the reality he’s _narrowly_ escaped,

Still pulls Geralt into the tender, velveteen cusp of his atmosphere when all Geralt knows is the fate he probably deserves,

Brings him _right_ back to the reality he’s _somehow_ managed to hold onto despite all the ways he’s tried to _break_ it, _and_ ,

“Jaskier,”

“Right here, darling,”

And Jaskier’s clever hands slide up Geralt’s arms as they wind _tight_ around his waist,

As Geralt bears Jaskier back to the sheets, 

As he meets those sky-blue eyes and gives himself _entirely_ to the softness Jaskier offers so _freely_ , the _softness_ he’s always given _so_ willingly, the softness Geralt doesn’t _deserve_ , 

“I’m a _selfish_ man, little lark,” Geralt confesses quietly as the bard’s thighs lift to hug his hips, as Jaskier cups his face between his keeping hands and gazes up at the Witcher like he’s some kind of _miracle_ , 

And Geralt’s chest _burns_ with it, burns with _devotion_ , with _guilt_ , with a _love_ he thought _so far out of reach_ when it came to a thing like him,

A love so _fierce_ he’d _die_ for it, 

_Kill_ for it,

 _Live_ for it,

Even if he doesn’t _deserve_ it,

And Jaskier’s brow furrows when he says it, his expression bowing to some kind of _sorrow_ , and Geralt’s too-slow heart goes sideways when Jaskier’s soft lips melt against his own, when the bard curls a gentle hand into Geralt’s silver hair and winds his legs around his hips,

And Geralt’s entire body _thrums_ with the _ache_ of an _agonized_ guilt, 

As the warmth of Jaskier’s keeping, _rescuing_ love unfurls down his spine,

And it’s always like coming _alive_ , when the bard kisses him,

Like Geralt is shaking off the lingering frost of a winter that’s lasted a _century too long_ ,

And Geralt has _fancied_ himself in _love_ before,

But it all _pales_ in comparison to _this_ ,

Because there’s a small piece of him that _knows_ this hedges on something like _obsession_ ,

And maybe it should _frighten_ him,

Should _certainly_ frighten Jaskier, who was _eighteen_ and _unscathed_ when he fell headlong into one Geralt of Rivia,

Who now wears the scars of his devotion to the White Wolf as proudly as a king would his crown,

And Geralt runs his fingertips over the scar on Jaskier’s belly from the _arrow_ he _took for the Witcher,_

Traces the ragged lines a harpy’s talons left over the cage of Jaskier’s ribs,

Chases them up to the _bite_ from a Godling on Jaskier’s shoulder,

And Jaskier catches Geralt’s hand as the Witcher exhales a little too heavily against his lips, as he breathes out the _smoke_ of his _guilt_ ; the bard catches Geralt’s hand and guides it to his throat, and Geralt thumbs down the fragile skin as Jaskier nips playfully at his bottom lip,

As he rolls his hips, _languid_ and _easy_ ,

“There’s a _rich_ bevy of words I could use to describe you, my wolf,” Jaskier murmurs then, fingers tangling in the silver chain hanging from Geralt’s neck, “most of which I’m _sure_ you’ve heard sung out in every court from here to Novigrad. _Selfish_ , though?”

And then Jaskier presses a gentle hand to Geralt’s chest and the Witcher lets the bard flip them with ease, draws Jaskier over his lap as the bard pulls his medallion into his fist, uses the chain like a _leash_ to keep Geralt _right_ where he wants him,

As Jaskier kisses him with a _demanding_ , clever tongue, kisses him until Geralt’s hands go _tight_ around his hips and his cock is _aching_ where it’s nestled up against the bard’s ass,

“If only the gods were as _selfless_ as you, beloved,” Jaskier says, _right_ against Geralt’s ear, “no one would _ever_ suffer again,”

And then the bard is kissing down his neck, and the _scent_ of him - _Gods_ , the _scent_ of him is _thick_ on the air as his cock weeps over Geralt’s belly, and Geralt has to grit his teeth when Jaskier’s lips slide apart and he starts to worry a bruise into the base of the Witcher’s throat, _right_ where it burns the _sweetest_ ,

“Jaskier,”

“I _have_ you, my wolf,”

“Your _scent_ ,” and Geralt’s damn _mouth_ waters when Jaskier looks up at him through his lashes, chin resting against the swell of his chest; Geralt’s cock _throbs_ between his thighs and a _low_ burr rolls through his throat, a thing edged with _need_ , a thing edged with _guilt_ ,

“ _Selfish_ ,” Jaskier says quietly, fondness lacing both his tone and expression as he looms over Geralt, thumb tracing the Witcher’s lips, “you can’t even _ask me_ for what you _want_ , darling. Don’t keep me in _suspense_ , Geralt; you may be the most selfless man on the Continent, but _me_?”

And Jaskier rolls his hips again, grinds his dripping cock into the muscle of Geralt’s belly, arches a brow when Geralt’s hands slip down to grasp greedily at his ass, as the Witcher bites his lip and tries to swallow down a _groan_ ,

Because the _scent_ of him - _Gods_ ,

“Jaskier,”

“ _Mhm_?”

And Geralt _knows_ Jaskier could get off like this, could quite happily come undone rutting like a damn _animal_ against the straining muscle of Geralt’s stomach, and the mere thought has Geralt growling as he digs his thumbs into the V of Jaskier’s slender hips, the hips that fit _so fucking fine_ between his hands,

“Tell me what you _want_ , darling, tell me what you _need_ ,”

And Jaskier’s voice is downright _obscene_ , is _all_ wrapped around a _moan_ as he grinds down against Geralt, as he splays his clever hands over Geralt’s chest and works himself against his clenching stomach,

As he bites his lip and arches a brow, gaze so _demanding_ it’s got some _new_ kind of _heat_ unfurling in Geralt’s gut,

And,

Geralt slides one hand over Jaskier’s cock,

 _Traps_ it between a sword-calloused palm and his hardened belly,

And Jaskier drops his head as he lets out an _utterly_ divine, _breathless_ little keen,

As he chases his release between Geralt’s hand and his clenching stomach,

And the Witcher’s instinct is unfurling as the scent of Jaskier’s _need_ becomes the _only fucking thing_ he _knows_ , 

As Jaskier’s musk overwhelms _every ounce_ of _guilt_ left in his weary bones,

 _And_ ,

Somehow, 

Against _all_ odds,

All efforts of his own to the _contrary_ ,

_This is his fucking reality,_

And his nightmares seek to remind him of the one he’s so _narrowly_ escaped,

But _somehow,_

By some stroke of _sheer dumb luck,_

Geralt has managed to trip into the reality where Jaskier is _alive_ ,

Where he’s _whole_ ,

Where he bears the scars of his _devotion_ like a king with his crown,

Where he’s entirely, _completely_ -

“You _know_ ,” Jaskier breathes, and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are so fucking bright; “you know I’m _yours_ ,” and,

“You can _be_ selfish, Geralt, _so_ fucking selfish when it - oh, _Gods_ \- comes to _me_ ,” and,

“I _want_ it, want every fucking _bit_ of it, _please_ , Geralt, just - _oh, oh_ , _fuck_ -”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt burrs, because he _knows_ , knows what his voice _does_ to the bard, and Jaskier ruts against him _gracelessly_ now, lithe body _trembling_ , muscle _tense_ beneath his _fine_ , porcelain skin,

And Geralt _is_ ,

He’s _so fucking greedy_ when it comes to Jaskier,

He _knows_ he is,

But Jaskier is _his_ ,

And something _feral_ ,

Something _possessive_ ,

_Protective,_

_Proud,_

Unfurls in his chest as Jaskier comes undone with a _breaking_ cry of Geralt’s name, hips lurching in tiny, _cresting_ thrusts that have Geralt’s own _straining_ , have his heels digging into the sheets as Jaskier’s seed shoots all the way up to his goddamn _collarbone_ , 

And,

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt bites out, because the _scent_ of him -

But _then_ ,

“ _Jaskier_ \- Gods, Jaskier, _fuck_ ,” and,

Jaskier looks up at Geralt through his lashes as he laves his tongue through his _own seed,_ as he gathers it up, as he weaves his way _agonizingly slow_ up the rivers and hills of Geralt’s muscle until he’s putting his slick lips to Geralt’s,

Until he’s _spilling his spend_ over _Geralt’s_ tongue instead,

And it’s _rich_ and _heady_ , honey-saltwater-spring,

And Geralt has to grip the base of his cock as Jaskier _fucking feeds him_ his _own seed_ , as he licks into Geralt’s mouth to _chase_ the _taste_ of it, and Geralt doesn’t realize he’s _moved_ until he’s got Jaskier _beneath him,_ until he’s rutting against Jaskier’s hip and the bard is _laughing_ breathlessly against his cheek,

“ _That’s_ it,” Jaskier groans, and Geralt presses his face to the bard’s throat, drags his tongue over his pulse as some new _beast_ unfurls between his lungs, coaxed to life beneath Jaskier’s _keeping_ hands, “be _selfish_ with me, Geralt, take what you _need_ , I have you,” and,

“Get me _filthy_ , darling,” and,

Jaskier’s body _undulates_ beneath him, a slow wave of lithe muscle that has Geralt burying a _grating_ moan against Jaskier’s chest, and the bard’s praise-dripping words _ignite_ across his bones as Geralt ruts against him, pressure _building_ and _building_ and _building_ at the base of his _aching_ spine,

Pressure that finally fucking _shatters_ when Jaskier puts his lips to Geralt’s ear,

When he arches up _so_ fine beneath him,

When he slides a _tender_ hand into Geralt’s hair,

 _Pulls_ at it, just this side of _painful_ ,

And murmurs, “you’ll be _selfish_ when I _order_ you to be - you hear me, Witcher?” and,

Geralt’s hips stutter as his cock _pulses_ and his seed paints Jaskier in threads of opaline white, as he gets the bard _filthy_ with his desperate release, as he coats Jaskier in the _scent_ of him,

And Jaskier _hums_ a sound of sheer _praise_ as he pulls Geralt into a _slow_ , gentle kiss, the kind of kiss that has Geralt’s heart calming even as it leaps into his throat _,_ the kind of kiss that _pulls_ him together as he breaks _apart_ , 

As Jaskier winds his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, and the bard holds him _so_ fucking _sweet_ as Geralt buries his face against Jaskier’s precious throat, as he splays his hands over the scarred cage of Jaskier’s ribs,

 _And_ ,

“I love you, remember that - even when your mind _lies_ and tells you that I _shouldn’t_ ,” Jaskier says quietly, clever fingers toying idly with the shell of Geralt’s ear, and everything smells of them _both_ , of _sex_ and _heat_ , of _life_ and _devotion_ , of cedar and clove, of smoke and vanilla, of summer rose and steel,

And Geralt lets himself _sink_ into it, lets his body go _lax_ over Jaskier’s as the bard kisses over his cheek, as he nuzzles at Geralt’s jaw and hums a soft tune, fingertips scratching at Geralt’s nape, trailing down his sticky spine, and Geralt’s damn _heart_ is beating at the back of his tongue when he catches Jaskier’s lips in a lingering, _toe-curling_ kiss,

As he frames Jaskier’s jaw with one careful hand and says, “the nightmares mean _nothing_ when I’m always waking to a dream,” and,

Jaskier’s sky-blue eyes _glimmer_ as they rove over Geralt’s face,

And he figures he must say the _right things_ , sometimes,

When Jaskier’s eyes glimmer as he lets out a soft, fluttering, “ _Geralt_ ,” before dragging the Witcher into a kiss that promises they’re not about to get back to sleep anytime _soon_ ,


End file.
